The Iron Ring (5 page)

“But, no, it's—­” Artus began.

Tyvian, his pants and shirt set alight already by twirling, dancing fiends, kicked Artus in the back of the knee and, as the boy buckled, heaved both Artus and himself through the open door.

He expected snow, he expected ground, he expected to hit something hard and roll; none of that happened. They fell through open air, and he abruptly realized what Artus had been trying to say. They had jumped off a bridge.

A brick wall of icy water hit Tyvian in the face.

 

CHAPTER FOUR

THE IRON RING

T
he smell of dead fish and the hiss of a woodstove woke Tyvian from his coma. He was looking up at the dusty rafters of a thatch-­roof cottage, and his head was pounding. Sitting up gingerly, he saw that he had been laid on a straw pallet on a floor carpeted with beaver pelts, and covered by a thick blanket of itchy wool. He was wearing his underbreeches and nothing else. He spoke his first thought aloud. “If this is the afterlife, then I am sorely disappointed.”

“I am impressed.” A deep, weather-­worn voice rumbled from behind him.

Tyvian craned his neck—­a punishingly painful maneuver—­to see a burly man with wild, graying black hair and a thick matted beard sitting on a stool that didn't seem quite capable of accommodating his weight. He was clad in heavy furs and had the hands of a laborer—­thick, callused, and large. Tyvian sniffed the air tentatively—­the man smelled faintly of mud and sweat. “You will forgive me if I do not return the sentiment. Where am I?”

The man chuckled. “Out of ten thousand men, only perhaps a score might have escaped the Defenders aboard that spirit engine. Of that score, I doubt that even one of them would have the presence of mind to be flippant after two days of unconsciousness. You are an incredible person, Tyvian Reldamar, despite yourself.”

Tyvian's stomach tightened. He quickly scanned the room for a weapon, and spotted a long knife in a scabbard hanging by the rough wood door. When he looked back at the hairy man, he noted that the stranger's dark keen eyes had followed his every glance. He might be smelly, but the man sitting across from him was not a fool. “You know my name, but I don't believe I know yours.”

“Eddereon.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“You are a very good liar.”

Tyvian scowled. “Thank you.”

A teapot whistled, and Eddereon clapped his hands together and rose. “Ah! You must be thirsty, hungry. You haven't eaten for some time.”

Tyvian watched him go to the stove and pour out two cups of tea, keeping his bulk interposed between Tyvian and the knife. Searching his memory, Tyvian tried to recall whether he'd heard the name Eddereon before. It was Northron, the lack of surname and his faint accent making that fact even more obvious. Tyvian had never crossed the Dragonspine into those cold, open lands; he never saw any reason why a person would feel the need. He couldn't have met this Eddereon there, then. The man had to be an expatriate, but Tyvian couldn't place him, precisely. His face looked vaguely familiar—­those eyes especially. It was the face of someone he might have passed in a crowd or spied across a smoky tavern. That was all he had, though, and he didn't like it.

Eddereon held out a teacup. “It isn't poisoned, I promise.”

“No thank you—­I ate well on the engine.”

Eddereon smiled, revealing an imperfect set of teeth. “No, you didn't.” Tyvian's indignant expression prompted the big man to continue. “I spoke with the boy, Artus. He doesn't like you very much, you know.”

The boy! Suddenly Tyvian's escape from the burning spirit engine came charging into harsh focus—­the fire licking at his back, his pushing Artus from the train, the fall from the bridge. He glared at Eddereon. “I should have drowned.”

“I saved you. You and the boy.”

“From a freezing river at night? Why?” Tyvian spat.

Eddereon left the tea on the floor next to Tyvian and sat back down, chuckling. “Interesting that you don't ask ‘how.' ”

“Answer the question, Eddereon.”

Eddereon's face grew suddenly solemn, and strangely calm. “I saved the boy because he was an innocent, and undeserving of the fate you put upon him. I saved you, Tyvian Reldamar of Saldor—­known smuggler, thief, and blackhearted killer—­because I have seen in you the potential to be much, much more.”

Tyvian rolled his eyes and lay back on the pallet. “I seem to be lectured as often as I am captured. I take it you work for the Defenders, or perhaps my mother? Is that how you know who I am?”

“No.”

“You lie.”

“I do not.”

“Clever retort, but I am strangely unconvinced.”

Eddereon sighed. “Have you asked yourself how it was that the Defenders got wind of your operation to defraud Marquis du Rameaux?”

Tyvian sat up again, eyes flashing. “
You
tipped Alafarr off?”

Eddereon nodded. “Not Alafarr, but her superior, Tarlyth, with whom I have dealt with in the past. I have been watching you for almost two years, ever since I heard of your exploits at the Blue Party in Eretheria. It took me that long to obtain enough information to set you up.”

“I suppose you told Zazlar Hendrieux, too? Is he getting a cut of the reward money, then?”

“How Hendrieux received word, I do not know. He might have warned you, I suppose, but chose to betray you of his own accord.”

Tyvian sprung from the floor and lunged at the knife. He drew it, but his legs, weak from inaction, caused him to stumble back to the ground. Still, he cocked his arm back, aiming to throw the knife through Eddereon's eye. Tyvian had the big man dead to rights, and Eddereon knew it, but he did not stir from his stool.

“Before I kill you,” Tyvian sneered, “I want to thank you for saving my life. You seem a decent sort for a backstabbing, stinking vagabond.”

Tyvian tried to throw, but a sudden, searing agony shot through his right hand like liquid fire running through his veins. His arm didn't—­couldn't—­move. He dropped the knife to cradle his pain-­wracked hand to his chest. It was then that he saw the plain, dark iron band he wore on his ring finger. It was from there that the terrible pain erupted. Roaring, Tyvian attempted to pull it off, but he could not. The pain the ring was causing faded quickly, but no matter how he twisted, yanked, or scraped, the innocuous iron ring did not budge in the slightest—­it was as though it was fused to the bone. “What the—­” Tyvian gasped.

Eddereon stood up, his face again as solemn as a priest's. “It is the instrument of your salvation, Tyvian.”

Tyvian picked up the knife in his left hand and dragged himself to his feet. “Get it off me.”

Eddereon raised his hands. “It is beyond my power to do so. Once put on, only the bearer may remove the Iron Ring.”

Tyvian staggered at Eddereon, knife pointed at the man's throat. “
Get it off
, or I will kill you where you stand!”

“You have no call to kill me, Tyvian.” Eddereon said calmly, hands at his sides. “I am unarmed. I have done you no harm. I am not your enemy.”

Tyvian lunged at him, but fiery lances of pain from his right hand shot through his arm and across his shoulders, causing him to stumble, yelping in agony.

Eddereon stood over him. “You cannot kill me.”

Tyvian dropped the knife as the burning pain continued. As soon as it left his hand, the pain quickly faded. “What . . . what enchantment have you put on me?”

“I am not the maker of the ring. I am only its bearer, and its keeper.” Eddereon held up his right hand, and Tyvian immediately spotted a plain iron band identical to his own nestled there between wide pink bands of scarred flesh.

“Kroth, what madness do you peddle, man?”

The door swung open and Artus, clad in furs, came in with an armload of firewood. He saw the half-­naked, panting Tyvian on the ground and looked at Eddereon. “Is everything all right?”

Eddereon smiled. “Yes, I am fine. Master Reldamar and I were having a chat.”

Artus snorted. “So, what—­he was insulting you and you gave him a smack?”

Tyvian scowled at him. “I should have left you to burn, brat.”

“Hey,” Artus snapped. “Next time you throw somebody out a spirit engine, maybe pick somewhere with ground, huh?”

“Artus, leave us.” Eddereon said.

Artus's mouth popped open. “It's damned cold out, though! I'll freeze!”

Eddereon pointed at the door. “Out. It will not be long.”

Grumbling, Artus left, shooting Tyvian one more rude look before going. When the door was closed, Eddereon held up his ringed hand again. “I, once, was very much like you, believe it or not. I was a brigand, a bandit. I and my men raided the caravans along the King's Highway that runs from Freegate to Benethor. I was elusive as the wind, mighty as the lion, and brutal as winter. All men knew my name and feared me.”

“Let me guess,” Tyvian snorted. “Then some cheeky, moralistic git stuffed a magic ring on your finger and it trained you to jump through ethical hoops, too?”

Eddereon nodded. “My reaction was much the same to my Initiator. I tried to kill him several times; I sought to cut the ring from my hand, with little success. I cursed it and cursed all who saw it put there. The ring is not as restrictive as I thought, however. It does not tell you what to think. It does not seek to make you a sheep. You will find it can be resisted sometimes, and there are those who endure its effects for decades, continuing in their old lives, if with markedly less pleasure.”

“If it isn't meant to control me, then what, pray tell, is its purpose?”

“You are no sheep, Tyvian Reldamar. You are a wolf, just as I am. It is not our destiny to settle down on a farm or weave baskets in a humble shop. We are too volatile and too restless for that. We need adventure, challenges that tax the body, mind, and soul. Before the ring, we found that life as villains. The ring will guide you to that same life,” Eddereon smiled broadly, “but this time as something far more noble.”

Tyvian glared at Eddereon for several moments, working up the proper reaction. Were his mouth not so dry, he might have spit in the burly stranger's face. He took a sip of tea, but it was bitter and too hot to help in that regard. Besides, he thought perhaps that spitting on Eddereon might be misinterpreted; Tyvian was willing to bet Eddereon washed his face with his tongue.

Instead, he rose. “Where are my clothes?”

“Quite destroyed by the fire and the river, I'm afraid. You may wear the leathers and furs I acquired for you over there.” Eddereon pointed to the corner of the cottage, where Tyvian saw a pile of material he had hitherto thought some kind of trash heap.

He marched over to the clothes, scowling, and pulled on a pair of leather breeches and a fur vest. He felt like a wild animal—­no, an
impoverished
wild animal. He turned back to Eddereon, lip curled. “I am going to Freegate. Once there, I intend to find a talismonger or thaumaturge whose art exceeds that of your masters, whomever they are. Then, I will have him
excise
this odious item from my hand, after which I will track you down and take great pleasure in putting a rapier through your heart.”

Eddereon stood and handed Tyvian a waterskin, the knife, and a small pack. “Food and hearthcider for the journey. The knife for protection. I fear that you will find the ring hard to remove, however. It will only release you when you have become Redeemed.”

Tyvian took the items with a scowl. “I am through talking with you now.”

Eddereon nodded. “I will never be far away, should you need me.”

Tyvian pulled on a great fur cloak, slapped a hat made from a river otter on his head, and left the cottage. He made certain to slam the door.

Artus, who had been sitting with his back to the cottage, stood up. “Oh, it's you. Is Eddereon still in there?”

Tyvian gestured at the door. “You better hurry. He may run out of simplistic ethical aphorisms any moment.”

Tyvian turned his back and walked away on unsteady legs as Artus went inside. The cottage was situated a mere fifty yards from the banks of a narrow river—­a tributary of the Trell, no doubt—­and he could see the bridge from which he had fallen two days earlier stretching over it. The engine track cut across the snowy landscape ahead of him, a barren black strip of lifeless ground in a field of white. He traced the track east with his eyes, toward the imposing gray and white peaks of the Dragonspine, knowing that the Freegate road would run in the same direction, though it might be as far as a mile from the track itself. He considered his route. It was cold, and the heavy leather and fur boots were poorly sized for his thin feet. Between this and his exhaustion, Tyvian felt like he was dragging wooden blocks behind his legs.

He heard the door to the cottage slam open behind him. There was the crunch of footsteps in snow and he turned around to find Artus planted in front of him. “Hey! Hey, what did you tell him?”

Tyvian rolled his eyes. “Let's see—­I called him a backstabbing, stinking vagabond and a cheeky, moralistic git. What is it to you?”

“He's gone, is what! He just up and gone! He left a note!” Artus held up a scrap of paper. Tyvian could see the crudity of the handwriting from where he stood.

“I presume that you can't read, then.”

Artus shook his head. “Can you?”

Tyvian scowled and snatched the note from the boy's hand. He glanced it over, and after parsing Eddereon's blocky script, saw that it read:

Artus,

Remember this: it was not I who saved you from the spirit engine, it was Tyvian Reldamar. No matter his faults, which are many, he is a man destined for greatness who is possessed of a noble soul. He is embittered, though, and angry, and will need help along the way. You offered to serve me in return for saving your life; I ask you to transfer that debt to Master Reldamar. He doesn't have many friends, Artus. Be his friend, despite his sharp tongue, and neither he nor you will regret it.

Saints bless and keep you well,

Eddereon

“Well?” Artus asked.

Tyvian cleared his throat. “ ‘Dear Artus, please bugger off and leave Tyvian Reldamar alone. Your hairy friend, Eddereon. P.S. Learn to read, for Kroth's sake, so as not to annoy your betters.' ”